


Raw

by serialfiller



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: M/M, Sadness, Sexual Content, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serialfiller/pseuds/serialfiller
Summary: He never loves the boy more than when he looks like this. He never feels like a monster more than when he looks like this.





	Raw

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in like 3 years, sorry in advance.

They've been doing this _thing_ for a good three months or so, and they are yet to give it a name.

The first time it happened, they were both drunk and they were both happy, whatever that could mean for men like them. They didn't kiss, and they still haven't done that, but Jesse cried out and bit his neck as he came, and the sound etched itself on Walter's memory in a way only what is truly precious to him has and the mark stayed on his flesh for little more than a week.

They haven't kissed, and they haven't fucked, but he's tasted every inch of the younger man's body and Jesse has let him push a finger inside him so far (' _yo, **one** , okay?_') and the mere knowledge of that makes his blood rush in a way even a perfect cook can't.

At times, he gets an odd sense of pride about it all, some sort of smug thrill that he can't quite describe. It's the type of rush that comes from getting away with something, like he's getting more than he deserves - and that is truly a rare thing, because he is always feeling shortchanged, even when he gets exactly what he wants - and it's just that Jesse is so goddamn _beautiful_.

Jesse always initiates. Walter can tell that it's not always because he wants it, and rather often it is because he senses that Walt does, but he's fine with that. The near telepathy they share in the lab is paying off outside it and he is pleased - he's worked hard for this. He has earned it. 

Most of the times Jesse simply drops to his knees in front of him. A few times it starts by Jesse sneaking a hand into his trousers. A couple of times he's let him decorate his pretty face with ropes of white, his rosy lips and blue eyes in the most beautiful contrast. One time he simply stripped and let Walt watch as he brought himself to climax. 

They have been well over 30 sessions in roughly 20 separate days, which amounts to about two times a week. Jesse has only cried twice. Walt feels mild disgust at himself when he realizes he expected that number to be way higher.

He isn't fully satisfied, though. He can't get it quite right, he hasn't figured out how to make it happen exactly as he needs it. He wants to know everything, and Jesse won't speak to him when they do this. He wants Jesse to beg and praise him. He wants to hear Jesse say exactly how good it feels when he touches him. He wants to hear about all the men who have had his way with him before and to erase every single mark they left. Trace his hands over Jesse's body until their fingerprints are erased. He wants to fuck his throat until not a single memory of them subsists. He wants Jesse to tell him he loves him. He wants to not say it back.

It's only the fourth time Jesse has fallen asleep next to him, and he is glad the boy hasn't realized he didn't wash the sheets since the last time because he didn't want to lose his smell. He's glad he didn't see the blanket and pillow on the sofa. He's glad the kid is clueless enough to not realize Walt's entire world is in the palm of his hand. 

He never loves the boy more than when he looks like this. Sleep-soft, all defenses down, the relaxed features making him look impossibly young. Impossibly pure. He never reflects his true nature more than in slumber.

Walter wishes he had known. He wishes there had been another way. He wishes he had been better at reading people, that he'd seen someone else, _anyone_ else, when he rode along with the DEA. He wishes he hadn't used the words he has. He wishes that Jesse knew. He wishes he could stop taking.

He never feels like a monster more than when Jesse looks like this. Like he's feeding on the boy's soul since he lost his own. Like a predator, stalking his prey, waiting until it is at its most defenseless, at its most broken. Jesse stirs in his sleep and mutters something, and Walter simply caresses his shoulder with the back of his hand and Jesse relaxes into the touch and goes back to sleep. Walter smiles, but he doesn't feel better.

Long ago, he told Jesse he was a blowfish. He didn't tell him they're poisonous. He didn't tell him that it doesn't matter to sharks. He should have.


End file.
